Fault Line
by chazper
Summary: The Cohens plus 1 deal with Marissa's death: a postfinale story. Chapter 2
1. Chapter 1

**Fault Line/Epicenter/Aftershock**

Before he even reached the second floor landing, Sandy stopped, exhausted. He slumped, shoulders stooped, one hand clutching the banister. With the other, he kneaded his temples, thumb and forefinger pressing painfully, palm curved to cover his stinging eyes.

At last he sighed, shuddering, and looked up.

There seemed to be so much further left to climb, all those steps, all sapping what remained of his energy.

He measured the distance to his son's bedroom door, wondering dimly how it could be so far away, why the air felt so thin and his feet so leaden.

A fist squeezed his heart each time he breathed.

Slowly, every step a conscious effort, Sandy made his way to Seth's room. He paused to fill his lungs, knocked once, eased the door open, and stepped inside.

It was like seeing something familiar from far away. He knew the place, but it wouldn't come into focus, wouldn't make sense.

There were all the familiar posters, the scattered sketchbooks and comics, CDs and video games, the chlorine and sweat-scented clothes strewn on the floor, the college catalogs, bookmarked with sticky notes, the well-worn skateboard propped against a wall--unmistakable evidence of a life being lived. They made no sound, and still they reverberated in the silence, discordant echoes of laughter and energy and a million plans.

At the center of the quiet chaos, Seth sat uncannily still, legs stretched out straight, a carved effigy posed on the bed.

"Ryan--" Sandy began. Instantly, his voice oxidized. It flaked away around the soft consonants, and he had to gather the shards before he could try again. "Ryan is home."

Without looking, Seth nodded. His fingers never stopped stroking Captain Oats, but no other part of his body moved.

Sandy watched for a moment. Then he crossed to the bed, nudging his son's feet over so that he could sit. "He's in the poolhouse," he explained, as though Seth had asked. "Your mother and I hoped he would stay in here with us now, but . . ." Seth's eyes flickered up, dark and knowing, then dropped to his lap again, and the rancid taste of regret filled Sandy's mouth. Bitterly, quietly, he murmured, "I know. We should have had him move inside a long time ago . . ."

A silence, opaque as fog, shrouded the room.

"Seth?" Sandy prompted. When his son didn't answer, he reached over, gently removing Captain Oats, stilling Seth's hand with his own.

"I don't think I can do this, Dad."

The words slogged out, muffled and muddy with shame.

"Ah, Seth . . ." Scooting up to the headboard, Sandy wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders.

As though the touch released a clogged valve, Seth's body collapsed, sagging against his father's, somehow boneless and brittle at the same time. Sandy had to hold his breath to hear the whispered confession. "I don't know how. It's too hard."

"I know," Sandy murmured. "I know. You've been trying to console Summer, and you're grieving too. It doesn't seem fair to ask you to be strong for someone else. But Ryan really needs you now."

"How is he?" Something strangled the question and it plummeted, lifeless, answering itself.

Sandy shook his head against his son's matted curls. "The doctors say that he should be fine," he reported vaguely.

Seth twisted, just enough for the despair in his face to lance his father's soul. "The doctors don't know Ryan though."

"No," Sandy conceded. "No, son, they don't. But you do. It's time . . ." Sliding open the nightstand drawer, he picked up Captain Oats and shut the toy inside. The latch clicked, an audible period, when it closed. "Time to put this away, Seth. Time to be a grown-up. Your mother is making some hot chocolate for Ryan. Why don't you take it out to him?"

"And then what?" Seth demanded. "Dad, I just . . . I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say to him—even how to look at him. It's hard enough with Summer. But at least I can hold her while she cries, and listen to her talk about growing up with Marissa, and just . . . shelter her, you know? But with Ryan . . ." His fists opened on air and clenched again. "How am I supposed to help him?"

"Just be his friend. Son, you can do this. You were there for him last year when Trey was shot."

Seth bolted off the bed, nearly knocking Sandy to the floor. "That was different, Dad! Trey was still alive—and so was Marissa—and I had Summer to help me. I can't . . . I just don't think I can face Ryan by myself." Gripping the edge of his dresser, nails gouging the wood, he glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes glistened with entreaty. "Will you come with me?"

"He needs you . . ."

Seth's face crumbled and Sandy recognized his little boy from years past: loitering alone at the edge of a playground, climbing into the dentist's chair, peering out the rear window of the camp bus, hiding under a table at his sixth birthday party, climbing into his parents' bed, tear-stained and trembling from a nightmare--all those moments of hurt, fear and loneliness.

He ached to comfort that child.

Only this time, he couldn't.

This time Seth had to find his own strength.

Sandy stood up, stiffening. "He needs you," he repeated. "Right now Ryan won't reach out to me or your mother. He just says what he thinks we want to hear. But if it's just you . . ." When Seth still wavered, swallowing wordlessly, he added, "I wish I could make this easier, son. I can't. But as hard as it is, you can't put your own feelings first. Not this time."

Meeting his son's reluctant gaze, Sandy held it grave and unblinking until Seth nodded.

"I know, Dad," he whispered. He released his hold on the desk, stepping away so that he stood unsupported. Deliberately, he rolled his shoulders back, unfolding his lanky frame. "Okay. Okay, right. So . . . Seth-Ryan time."

Resolution defined the planes of his face as Seth marched to his bedroom door. He stepped into the hall, hesitated, and turned back around, his eyes narrowed speculatively.

"You said Mom is making hot chocolate?" he asked. "Why? Does Ryan even like that stuff?"

Sandy shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted wearily. "Maybe making it just gives your mother something to do."

"Yeah." Slow, sad comprehension informed that one syllable. Seth's mouth curved, a phantom, wistful smile, and he left.

Sandy started to follow. His foot bumped a textbook abandoned on the floor, and he picked it up, absently smoothing a few wrinkled pages, noting the title.

_**The Sound and the Fury.**_

That phrase, unbidden, cued related lines. They appeared, smudged and sinister in his mind: _dusty death; out, out brief candle; hour upon the stage; signifying nothing._

Flinching as though it singed his fingers, Sandy dropped the book. It fell open on the desk, jostling Seth's computer. The screen blinked, instantly awake, and Sandy froze. There, vivid on the monitor were Seth, Ryan, Summer and Marissa, all of them sprawled on the sand, sun-blessed and smiling and leaning against each other. The picture glowed for a moment, then dissolved into swirls of color, an Impressionist painting viewed much too close. Sandy stumbled back, and the shapes reformed. This time, they were clustered around the Christmukkah tree: Seth, grinning widely, an overstuffed stocking clutched to his chest, Summer adjusting a ribbon corsage, Marissa cradled on Ryan's lap, dangling a sprig of mistletoe over his head. Oblivious of the camera they gazed at each other, their faces tender, unguarded, alive with promises, their lips parted for a kiss.

Catching his breath, Sandy sank heavily into the desk chair.

In front of his eyes, images melted, transformed, shimmered like light on still water, and submerged again, a sea wash of memory. Seth and Summer. Summer and Marissa. Seth and Ryan. Ryan and Marissa.

RyanandMarissa.

Marissa.

Ryan.

Sandy watched, transfixed. And he wished.

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Seth padded quietly into the kitchen, his nose wrinkling. The room smelled faintly of scorched chocolate, and he bit his lip against any unwelcome joke that might shove its way out.

It was a needless precaution. Alone with his mother, Seth could think of nothing at all to say.

Feeling strangely off balance, he sagged against the counter to study Kirsten. She stood motionless by the sink. Her hands cupped a mug of cocoa and she stared into the dark froth as though searching for some secret message immersed in its depths.

When a minute passed and she never looked up, never stirred, Seth coughed softly. "Mom?" he prompted, the word like a small hand plucking at her sleeve.

"Hmm? Oh, sweetie, I didn't hear you come in." Kirsten raised her head, her eyes liquid, her lips struggling to shape a wan smile.

Unsure what else to do, Seth shuffled to his mother's side. "Hypnotized by hot chocolate, huh?" he asked, as he pried the cup from her grasp. "Yeah, I guess it can be powerful stuff."

Kirsten started slightly as cool air swept her empty palms. With nothing else to hold, her fingers knotted around each other.

"It's silly, I know," she murmured, nodding at the drink. "Ryan might not even like cocoa, but I just kept thinking . . . 'Magic milk.' Do you remember? That's what you called it when you were little. You always wanted some when you were sick, or . . . unhappy. To make you feel better." Kirsten touched the mug reverently, a benediction. "Did it ever really work?"

Seth squinted, summoning his childhood. The dark, warm aroma wafted up, surrounding him like a hug. "Yeah, it did. But Mom, didn't grandma make it for me most of the time? Or the Nana or Rosa? I remember yours always tasted . . . different."

Kirsten's mouth twisted. "That's because mine was Swiss Miss." Her voice thickened, swollen with unshed tears. "I didn't know how to make it from scratch. Oh, Seth, I'm so sorry. I should have learned."

"No! Hey, Mom, no, it's okay. When I said different, I meant, as in totally delicious. Those Swiss misses—they're like the cocoa experts of the world, right?" Seth slid an arm around his mother's waist, but she still shivered, bird-fragile in his embrace. Desperate to distract her, to make something seem even halfway normal, he lifted the cup to his lips, sniffed dramatically, and took a gulp.

"Seth! What are you doing? I made that for Ryan!"

"It's good," Seth observed in surprise. "Sorry. Little taste-test here, Mom. You know, just in case. Because unless I'm mistaken, there was some chocolate-based disaster in this kitchen."

"I burned the first two batches." Kirsten admitted ruefully. "That one is my third. You really think that it tastes all right?"

"It is très délicieux." To prove his point Seth drained the whole cup, exhaling a satisfied "Ahhh" as he swallowed. Then, his eyes wide with mischief, he ducked away from his mother. "Oh, wait . . . You do have more for Ryan, don't you?"

Kirsten bit her lip, shaking her head as she prepared another mug. "Seth Ezekiel Cohen, you are so bad," she chided, trying to return his teasing, failing entirely. The cup wobbled in her hands. With a smothered sob, Kirsten set it down and turned to Seth. Fine lines etched her face, each one a different kind of pain: grief and regret and guilt and helplessness. "And I love you so much," she added fiercely. Her trembling fingers stroked his cheek, tilting it gently so that she could kiss him.

Seth's playful façade collapsed, leaving him bereft. "I love you too, Mom," he whispered.

Burrowing his head in her hair, he blinked back tears, inhaling the fresh, delicate scent that wasn't shampoo or cologne or anything except his mother. For a moment, they stayed like that, clasped together, sharing sorrow and support, fortifying each other. At last Seth stepped away. He straightened his shoulders and picked up the mug she had filled.

"Okay," he told himself, low, an echo of his father. "I should go to see Ryan . . . take this to him before it gets cold."

Kirsten nodded. Her arms wrapped around her midriff, entreaty burning through her gaze, she trailed Seth to the French doors. "If you can, convince him to come inside," she begged. "Please, Seth. I want him here with us. The thought of him out there all alone . . ."

"I know, Mom. I promise, I'll try."

Carrying the cup in both hands like a votive offering, Seth made his way out of the house and across the patio.

Kirsten watched him go, counting his steps with her heartbeats, breathing an urgent litany. Her children. Her sons. Seth and Ryan. Ryan and Seth. Seth. And.

Her fingers pressed prayerfully against her dry lips.

_Ryan,_ she thought. And then, _Marissa_. And then _Ryan_ again and again, the name elusive as sand blown by a desert wind.

It stung her eyes.

It grated against her throat.

Kirsten stumbled back to the sink, suddenly parched, barely able to swallow.

Filling a glass with water, she gulped it down in one breath, poured more and drank that too.

It didn't help. Nothing helped.

She was still arid inside.

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Seth stopped at the door of the poolhouse. Sunlight snapped off the windows, blinding him for an instant, and he blinked, wavering. Then he knocked.

There was no answer.

His loose fist jittered in the air before dropping limp and empty to his side. Taking deep breaths, in, out, in, out, he waited. At last he eased the door open, inch by slow inch, and stepped inside. From somewhere he summoned a tone that sounded almost normal, falsely hearty and shrill, but still Seth.

"Ryan. Hey. Dad told me you were here. I thought maybe we might--"

From the step where he sat huddled into himself, Ryan lifted hooded eyes. Sunken, drained of color, they appeared ancient and fathomless. "Why aren't you with Summer?" he demanded. His voice was dull but serrated, like a rusty saw. It scraped Seth's skin.

"I was," he stammered. "But her dad sent me home. He gave her something. You know, so she can sleep for a while." He shifted, so that light would fall on Ryan's face. In shadow, it frightened him; shuttered and bruised, it looked unfamiliar, the face of some dangerous stranger, not Ryan at all.

"Go back. Stay with her."

"Yeah, but Ryan . . ."

"You stay with her," Ryan repeated. His stare penetrated, unblinking, allowing Seth no escape. "You have to be there when she wakes up."

_When she wakes up. _

_Because Summer will wake up._

_Marissa won't, not ever again._

Without waiting for an answer, Ryan ducked his head. The movement was a retreat, almost a surrender.

Stricken, Seth shuffled in place, back and forth but moving nowhere.

"Okay," he conceded softly. "Okay, I will, but I don't have to go now. Dr. Roberts said Summer should sleep for hours." Seth crept closer, expecting to be dismissed, but when Ryan said nothing he placed the mug down on the step and sat beside it, lacing his hands tightly around his legs. "Mom made this for you. It's hot chocolate. Believe it or not, it's good. Which I know because I figured I better check it out first. It's very, well, chocolaty and . . . Ryan? Dude, what are you doing?"

Ryan's jaw worked, but he didn't answer. His eyes closed and he hunched forward. Bewildered, a little afraid, Seth leaned over too, his gaze fixed on Ryan's hands. They were clenched tight, white-knuckled and blue-veined, wringing something between them convulsively.

"Ryan, is that your old wrist cuff?"

The twisting continued. Between Ryan's fingers, the shabby black leather pleated and split, scarred with crescents from his angry nails.

Seth swallowed and clutched his knees tighter. "I get it, you know," he confided cautiously. "I mean, I was holding Captain Oats before, and yeah, he's not bendy or anything, but it was still pretty much the same thing as you're doing now. Only the wrist cuff works totally better. I didn't know you still had it though. I thought it was . . ."

With an audible hiss, Seth sucked back the last word. Any one he might use sounded too much like "dead."

"Gone?" Ryan concluded. He shrugged, his mouth crimping. "No. Lots of things are gone, but not this." His eyes slit open, sliding sideways. "What do you want, Seth?" he asked wearily.

"Me? No, I don't . . . Well, I do. I mean, hell, yeah, I want a lot of things, Ryan. But mostly I just want to . . . help. I don't know how. But whatever you need me to do. Just name it, man."

Ryan's mouth moved wordlessly before he rasped out a brief, barely audible "Thanks." His fingers went slack and the mangled strip of leather fell between his feet. Turning his hands over, he rested them on his knees, exposing his open palms.

Seth winced, seeing them. The flesh was scored with small cuts, ragged and half-healed, a fading map of some distant, foreign land. Somehow the sight of those wounds, scarcely more than scratches, shredded whatever insulation he had wrapped around himself. Seth wasn't prepared for the searing rush of emotion. He should have been. The police had described what had happened, the doctors had warned them what to expect, but nothing had registered. Nothing had made sense that night.

It didn't make sense now either.

_Flipped over. Crashed upside down. Crushed on impact._

_Broke a window. Crawled over the glass. Carried Marissa away from the car. Before it exploded. Before it burned._

_Just in time. _

_But too late._

In the quiet safety of the poolhouse, Seth heard the roar, saw the flames, felt the scorching heat, smelled the acrid stench of smoke and blood, imagined the rest: Marissa's limp weight in his own arms, her eyelids fluttering, her skin growing gray, the awful, ineffable loneliness of the moment when she simply. Stopped.

Nausea clogged his throat and he choked it down, cursing silently. He didn't know anything. He hadn't been there. At that time, in that place, there had just been two people. Ryan and Marissa.

And then there had been only one.

Marissa had died.

She was dead.

But Ryan had survived.

He was home now, alive.

Inches away but still unreachable.

"Ryan," Seth stammered. "I don't know what to do. You've got to tell me. Okay?"

He forced himself to stop staring at Ryan's hands, to focus on his voice instead. It emerged slowly, like twilight, dusky, and fading into dark.

"Leave, Seth. All right? You being here . . . I appreciate it. But right now, I can't . . ." Ryan's gaze flickered upward, forlorn, before falling again.

Seth bobbed his head reluctantly. He released his knees, bracing his hands against the step, but somehow he couldn't push himself to his feet. Defeated, he sank back down. "Are you sure?" he prompted. He pitched his voice low, beneath demand or entreaty. "'Cause I could just sit here. We wouldn't have to talk. Seriously, I'm fine with the sitting and not talking. Or maybe . . . you could come inside? You could use the guest room or the couch in the den. Or you could stay on the floor in my room. I'll even blow up the air mattress myself. You know put my legendary hot air to good use for a change . . ." Abruptly exhausted, Seth stopped. He glanced at Ryan and measured his last words. "Swear to Jesus and Moses, we won't bother you. But Mom . . . all of us . . . we really wish you'd stay in the house with us now."

Ryan's eyes were clenched shut, his fists digging into his thighs. "Kirsten wants me inside?" he asked, around shallow, erratic breaths.

"We all do. But . . . whatever you want, okay?"

Ryan nodded tersely. "I'll come." He paused as if each word required all his energy. "Just give me an hour."

"One hour. Okay. Cool. Or, you know not . . . So. Yeah. I'll just . . . see you inside then."

Seth backed toward the door, not sure how or what he had won, but afraid any false move would shatter his fragile victory. He was already reaching for the handle when Ryan spoke again.

"Seth?"

"Yeah?"

"Take the hot chocolate with you, okay? I can't . . ." Ryan licked his chapped lips, swallowing hard. "Tell Kirsten thanks. But I can't drink that."

"No problem."

Seth retrieved the mug and shuffled away again, easing the door shut, but not letting it latch behind him. Sagging against the poolhouse wall, he poured out the chocolate, watching it turn to mud in the ruthless sunshine.

"Yeah" he sighed. "I don't blame you, buddy. It's cold now anyway."

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Ryan edged into the kitchen. From outside, he had seen the Cohens clustered around the table. He had observed them talking, sensed their animation, felt the current of their energy, but as he entered, in the exact instant that he crossed the threshold, everything stopped.

They stopped.

The space vibrated with expectation, and Ryan shrank back, an animal caught in a humane trap. His body poised for flight, he scanned the room, searching for some clue that would tell him what to do next, how to escape, or atone, or confess.

Kirsten rose from her chair. "Ryan," she breathed, dispelling the static tension, infusing his name with assurances. "You're here. Can I get you something, sweetie? We were just going to have lunch." She swayed toward him. One hand hovered above his wrist, fingers flexing uncertainly, not quite daring contact.

Ryan blinked, shaking his head. "No. Thanks," he replied. One word followed another, automatic responses that disclosed nothing at all. "I'm fine. I'll just get some cereal."

He started to reach for the cupboard. Then, impulsively, he turned, ducking to brush a swift, furtive kiss against Kirsten's cheek.

Her eyes widened, jewel-bright and shimmering with instant tears.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured. Gratefully, tenderly, she drew Ryan into her arms. He shuddered once, burying his face against her neck as she stroked his hair, holding him close, crooning confidences that Sandy and Seth couldn't hear.

They didn't try. The moment was intimate, almost sacred, and it belonged to Ryan and Kirsten alone.

His lips curved, the promise of a smile, when she released him at last, and the air shifted, allowing them all to breathe.

Sandy exhaled, pushing back his chair. "Good to have you here with us, kid." His voice snagged on the barbed ends of that phrase, _"here with us,"_, words almost denied them, lost forever to the Coopers, and he swiped the knuckles of one hand across his eyes.

Ryan nodded, half-shrugged, and took a hesitant step toward the table. Before he could move any further, Sandy stood up, crossing the space in two strides. He looped an arm around Ryan's shoulders and pulled him into a fierce, wordless embrace, finally letting go only when Ryan winced and stiffened.

"God, kid, I'm sorry. I forgot. Your ribs—"

"No, it's okay. I'm okay." Ryan's gaze met Sandy's, limpid, unflinching, for a long moment. Then, abruptly, his eyes fell, shadowed by some bleak emotion: grief, or guilt, or apology. "I'll just . . ." he mumbled. Stumbling to the counter, he opened a cabinet, rummaging inside, searching for nothing except sanctuary.

Alone at the table, Seth looked at his parents, both haggard, leaning against each other, at Ryan, rigid and half-hidden behind the cupboard door, at his own hands, splayed flat on either side of his placemat.

His knees jittered and his feet shuffled uselessly.

"So. Um, cereal. Good choice there, Ryan," he observed. It was something he might have said two days before, casual and pointless. Those qualities comforted him, and Seth babbled on, the stream of words cleansing as clear water. "You know, it's not just for breakfast anymore. In fact, it's downright trendy. There are even cereal bars now. Which aren't what you might think. You know, like 'I'll have the Drunken Seaman,' which would be, I guess, rum poured over Cap'n Crunch--"

"Seth," Sandy admonished sharply.

"Sandy, it's fine. You don't have to stop him." Ryan surfaced long enough to glance at Seth, something like gratitude, or maybe just affection, flickering across his face before he retreated again. From behind the cupboard door, his voice continued, disembodied and wooden, just starting to splinter. "I need to tell all of you. I made a decision."

The sentence suspended itself, a taut line stretching across an abyss.

"What?" Sandy asked slowly. "What does that mean, a decision?"

Stalling, not trusting himself to answer, Ryan withdrew a random box. He poured cereal into a bowl, watching as the flakes landed, flat, brown, flimsy, crumbling around the edges like leaves long fallen from a tree.

_Dry leaves._

_Already dead._

_Moldering and nearly dust._

Ryan closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, before he finally spoke.

"I'm going to Albuquerque. To stay with my mom," he explained, the way he might say, "going to the store, to school, to the library." Moving his bowl to the center island he sat down, his thumb tracing the lip of an empty water glass. "I already talked to her. She thinks her boyfriend Ron can find me a job--"

"Whoa! Wait," Seth protested. He scrambled from his seat and slid onto the stool next to Ryan. "Why would you need a job there? When you say 'stay', you don't mean . . .?"

"I mean for the summer. That's all."

"Sweetie . . ." Touching Ryan's chin, Kirsten tried to coax his face toward her. When he resisted, she sighed, letting her hand settle on his shoulder, a plea and a promise. "If you want to see your mother, of course you should go," she said carefully. "But I don't think staying there all summer is a good idea. You won't be ready to work for a while yet anyway. And you've got college coming up--"

"I can't be here, Kirsten." Ryan's voice sounded hollow, all emotion scalded away, but when he finally looked up his eyes burned, smudged embers of remembered pain. "I just. Can't."

Behind Ryan's back, Sandy shook his head once, silencing his wife and son.

"Okay then, buddy, how about this?" he suggested gently. "We all drive down together. You can visit with your mom, and Kirsten, Seth and I can tour the Southwest. I think we could all use a change of scenery. Then, whenever you're ready to come home . . ."

"No," Ryan snapped. Immediately he recoiled, ashen and almost gasping with shame. "Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just . . . that won't work, Sandy. Seth has to be here for Summer. He should be with her now. And Julie is going need you and Kirsten. You can't leave. I have to." The words trailed off, faint as candle smoke. "I just hoped that you'd understand."

Kirsten's fingers moved, circling, warm and almost weightless against Ryan's cheek. "I'll make the arrangements for you," she whispered.

Ryan covered her hand with his, pressing it close for an instant before he slid away. "Thanks. But I already did," he admitted. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Kirsten echoed, startled. "But Ryan, tomorrow is . . ."

"Marissa's funeral. I know."

"So . . . then, what?" Seth demanded. Baffled, disbelieving, he peered at Ryan, searching for some explanation in his averted face. "You're not going to go?"

Picking up a bit of cereal, Ryan held it for a moment, then ground it to dust between his fingers and watched it drift back into the bowl. "No," he murmured. "I'm not."

Kirsten glanced at Sandy helplessly, pleading with him to intervene.

"You sure about this, kid?" he asked softly. "Nobody is going to force you, but if you don't go, I'm afraid you'll regret it. I think you might want to be there for Marissa."

Ryan stood up. Without flinching, without raising his eyes from the floor, he carried his bowl over to the sink, emptied the contents into the disposal, and turned on the tap. "The funeral isn't for Marissa," he replied, his voice like dark rocks under the running water. "It's for the people who loved her, her friends and family."

"Yeah, dude," Seth stammered. "But Ryan, you . . ."

"Her mother shouldn't have to see me there."

Ryan finished rinsing the bowl. He wiped it dry and refolded the dishtowel, taking care to replace each item precisely where it belonged.

"Besides," he added, turning to face the Cohens, "I've already said my goodbyes."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Fault Line **Chapter 2**

Sitting silently on the edge of the ottoman, Seth rocked forward and back, gripping the knees of his creased black dress pants. Each time he moved, his cufflinks, the ones his grandfather had given him belatedly for his Bar Mitzvah, blinked like stern, disbelieving eyes.

"Twenty-four carat gold with an onyx inlay. Engraved with your initials," Caleb had noted with satisfaction. "Serious jewelry, Seth. These cufflinks are designed for a man, someone who recognizes significant occasions and who knows his place in the world." He had frowned, squinting skeptically, as though Seth couldn't be trusted to know when to wear them, or why.

He could though.

The cufflinks felt like relics. Solid and sharp-edged, they were hard to fasten, equally hard to remove, and they gouged his wrist bones. Seth had worn them only once, for his grandfather's funeral. Putting them on today had been a reflex, just another automatic response, like buttoning his shirt or brushing his teeth.

Or breathing.

Like talking to Ryan always used to be: natural and necessary.

Only now Seth didn't even know how to start. For five minutes he had sat mute, watching Ryan's methodical movements as he packed, how he selected only the oldest and most worn of his clothes, the way he rolled socks and t-shirts so that he wasted no space in his duffel bag. At last Seth saw him pick up a final pair of jeans, fold them in fourths, slip them inside, smooth the faded fabric, and quickly, deliberately, pull the zipper shut.

The noise ripped the fragile quiet in the poolhouse, leaving it in shreds.

Wincing, Seth licked his dry lips. There was no longer any point trying to find the right words. They didn't exist. "You know, buddy," he ventured, fumbling for confidence, "if you want my advice . . ."

Ryan's gaze darted over, a dim replica of his old "spare me" laser-glare. Seeing it flicker, wan, perfunctory, Seth felt something begin to slip out of his grasp.

"Yeah, okay, you don't, but Ryan--" Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on his coffee mug, rubbing it between his palms: Aladdin trying to summon a genie, already making his wish. He swallowed and continued, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. "You shouldn't go."

"Seth," Ryan sighed.

Seth waited, hating the sound of his name, the way it seemed to close like a door, like one more in the long series of doors that had been shutting lately. It trapped them in another of those silences, the kind that felt dangerous, full of strange, sleeping things that shouldn't be disturbed.

Ryan seemed to sense their presence too. He stiffened and his mouth moved as if he might speak again, but at last he simply shrugged. His thumbnail scraped the ridged strap of his bag as he hefted it, testing its weight. For a moment he stood, eyes downcast, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Then he sat heavily on the top step. He began to put on his boots, pulling the laces tight, double-knotting them in place.

Unable to stand any of it—the quiet, the questions, the sight of Ryan in sweatshirt and battered jeans, readying himself to leave—Seth shook his head urgently. "At least you shouldn't go now," he amended. "Just wait, I don't know, a week, okay? Three days even. I mean, come on, what's three days, Ryan? It's not even four, right?" He ground his foot into the floor, once, twice, three times, counting. In the glossy black surface of his dress shoe, he could make out his reflection, faint and distorted, drowning in darkness. Shuddering, Seth gulped air, and looked up.

Ryan already seemed very far away, a figure in forced perspective receding toward the vanishing point.

Distant, hard to distinguish. And nearly gone.

Everything in the poolhouse appeared untouched. The surface of the counter shone, empty and wiped clean; all the storage baskets were aligned on the shelves, the stool had been pushed neatly under the drafting table. On the bed the sheets were stretched, immaculate and wrinkle-free, folded in a precise line under the pillows, all four corners crisply tucked in.

It was like a display, Seth thought, nothing real, nowhere that Ryan—that anyone—actually ever lived. The words _model home_ flashed through his mind, mocking him.

It had been his idea—what he had thought was a brilliant idea—to take Ryan there that first time, so long ago. In so many ways, that was the place where everything had begun.

And, perhaps, where everything had ended too.

Reflexively, Seth pushed himself out of the chair, crossed the room and slumped onto the bed. His careless weight creased the covers, rumpling them even more as he scooted toward Ryan. One hand closed into a fist and his knuckles kneaded the nearest pillow.

"See, buddy, here's the thing," Seth said, as if they were having a conversation. "If you just wait a few days—hell, even one--we could do it, what Dad suggested. You know, all drive to New Mexico together. Make it a family road trip." Ryan inhaled audibly, a thin, tattered, sound. Pausing, Seth peered at his averted face before he plunged on. "I Googled Albuquerque last night, and maybe it wouldn't be my first choice for a stop on the pancake tour of North America, but it would be interesting. Yeah, okay, not so much the rattlesnake museum, because I mean, come on. But Mom would love the native art and there are some hippie communes nearby so Dad could indulge his inner flower child. And before you say anything about Summer, I bet she would come with us too, because--"

"Seth, don't."

"No, just listen. There's this road called the Turquoise Trail and well, think about it. Turquoise, Ryan. You know what that means? Jewelry. Shopping. Two of Summer's favorite things . . . Seriously, a road trip could be good for all of us . . ."

The air shifted, cooling, as Ryan stood up and Seth's voice trailed off. "Just don't go, man," he concluded miserably. "Not now. Not by yourself."

"I've got to, Seth." Ryan raked both hands through his hair, laced his fingers behind his neck, and forced his head up. He looked directly at Seth, his eyes the mottled blue of bruises, of broken veins. "If I stay here--"

"What?" Seth demanded. He sat up straight, his face glazed with anger. "If you stay here, what? It's gonna be hell? Shit, Ryan, it's gonna be hell no matter where you go. At least here you have people who love you." Flushing, he recoiled, although Ryan didn't react, scarcely even seemed to hear. "I'm sorry," Seth mumbled, his throat thick with mingled contrition and appeal. "I mean, I know your mom loves you too. It's just . . .you think leaving is going to make it easier to deal with everything?"

"Not easier," Ryan replied softly. "Safer, maybe."

"What does that mean, safer? For who?" Seth's voice rose in alarm. "Ryan, what happened to Marissa . . . it wasn't your fault. You know that, don't you? So why is it safer if you leave?"

Ryan didn't answer. Instead, he grasped Seth's forearm and hauled him, unresisting, to his feet. Leaning forward, Ryan adjusted Seth's carelessly knotted tie until it was centered, taut and even. His gaze fixed on his own fingers as he spoke. "Did I ever tell you, that first weekend I was here? When we were getting ready for the fashion show? I'd never worn a tie before and I couldn't figure out what to do with the damn thing. Your dad taught me. He came out and fixed it for me, talking about how it's such a mystery . . . And it really is, you know? Even now."

Unsure what Ryan meant, Seth simply bobbed his head, expecting something more, something else. But that was it.

Ryan was done.

His expression veiled again, he retreated a step. "Summer wants you to pick her up early, right?" he prompted. "You should get going now."

"But . . ." Helplessly, Seth plucked at his cuffs, ran his hand down the tie Ryan had already smoothed. "I don't even know . . . what am I supposed to tell her? She expects you to be there. For us all to be . . . together today."

Ryan's lips crimped and his gaze skidded sideways, guilty, seeking somewhere to hide. "Tell her I love her," he whispered finally. "And that I'm sorry."

Seth swiped a hand over his eyes. He didn't make any move to leave. Ryan placed a hand on his back and gently, inexorably steered him toward the door.

"Don't keep her waiting, man," he urged. "She needs you."

"No. I won't. I . . . You'll call, won't you, Ryan? And if you change your mind, just come back. Any time . . ."

"Yeah," Ryan breathed. His lips curved into a small, wistful smile. "Don't worry. I know where you live."

"Where _you_ live, bro. This is your home too."

Swallowing hard, Ryan held out his hand. Seth looked at it, numb. Then, his face crumbling, he lurched forward and wrapped Ryan in an impulsive embrace. Just as he had the first time they said goodbye, Ryan stood for a moment, rigid and unresponsive, before he hugged Seth back.

Almost simultaneously, he steered him toward the door, opened it, and eased him through.

Outside, sunlight blazed down, stunning and merciless. Seth blinked, trapped in its glare as, behind him, the poolhouse latch caught with an audible click.

Kirsten sat in front of her vanity mirror, absently twisting her rings, staring at nothing. From the doorway, Sandy watched her, his own face desolate. Vainly, he tried to recollect how she had looked in the kitchen that night sinking to the floor in his arms, but the image wouldn't come clear. She had been laughing, he knew, her head thrown back, her hair disheveled, her eyes sparkling with abandon.

He remembered her throaty chuckle when he slipped a hand underneath her blouse.

"_Sanford Cohen! What are you thinking?" she had protested, even as she arched, purring, into his touch. "Here? Now? What if the boys come home?"_

"_Oh, I don't think we have to worry about that. We should have the place to ourselves for hours. Seth is with Summer, and who knows how long it will take Ryan to say goodbye to Marissa?"_

_Say goodbye to Marissa._

The memory of those words seared. Sandy flinched, recalling how innocent they had seemed, how carelessly he had punctuated them with thrusts of his tongue between Kirsten's breasts.

"_Mmm, well, in that case . . . " she had drawled, licking her lips and yanking down the zipper of his pants. "Here and now is perfect. And we do have some whipped cream left over from dessert, don't we?" Growling wickedly, she had nipped Sandy's shoulder and reached behind him for the refrigerator door. _

His Kirsten, wanton, playful, alive with desire and sheer happiness. Her entire being had shone vivid and light.

Then the phone rang. And everything changed.

Now, lost in the blue of their bedroom, she seemed dim, a charcoal drawing, all shadows and smudged, unfinished lines.

Wordlessly, Sandy moved to stand behind her. His reflection met hers in the mirror and she quivered, startled. A faint sound escaped her, pain in one stifled gasp.

"Is it time already?" she whispered.

Sandy dipped his head. He pressed a hand to her cheek and Kirsten turned her face into it, kissing his palm, and resting there for a long moment.

"How are we supposed to do this, Sandy?" Hushed and hesitant, she picked through words like shards of broken glass. "Marissa . . . she was too young. I keep seeing her at graduation, the way she smiled, how happy she looked, how ready she seemed for . . . everything. It doesn't seem possible that she's really gone. And Julie and Jimmy . . . Oh, God, how can they stand to bury their child . . .? I can't even face saying goodbye to ours."

"I know," Sandy murmured. "I know."

"I feel so ashamed, because it's not the same thing, it's not even close. But it scares me, Sandy—Ryan leaving like this. It feels like forever, like we're losing him too." Kirsten glanced up, her eyes lost and imploring. "If only he weren't eighteen. At least then we could make him stay . . ."

Sandy kissed Kirsten's hair, running his thumb gently along her cheek. "No, honey. We couldn't."

"Sometimes . . ." Kirsten whispered, and stopped.

"What?"

"Sometimes, I'm so grateful that Ryan was with her—that Marissa had someone so she didn't . . . die . . . alone." Kirsten swallowed. Turning toward the window, she gazed past Sandy to some hazy spot beyond the horizon. Her breath hitched, and he wondered what she saw. "But sometimes," she choked, "I can't help it. I wish . . ." Unable to finish, she crimped her lips, stifling the final words.

"That it hadn't been Ryan," Sandy concluded.

Kirsten clutched his hand. "Yes!" she hissed fiercely. "I hate it—_hate it_—that he has to live with those memories. Ryan has already been through so much. How much more is he supposed to bear?" She shuddered, her voice splintering. "There are moments when . . . oh God, Sandy. I even hate Marissa for putting him through this. And then I hate myself--"

"Honey, don't--"

"But how can I blame Marissa? It wasn't her fault. And I did love her, Sandy. I do."

Sandy squeezed one hand over his eyes, vainly trying to erase his own pain. "Of course you do, Kirsten. So do I. But Ryan's our kid, and seeing what this has done to him . . ." He faltered. "I know how you feel. You just wish--"

It was no use. He couldn't find any words. Instead Sandy folded both arms around his wife, holding her close in the hollow silence.

At last, reluctantly, he stirred.

"Sweetheart," he said. "We have to go."

Kirsten inhaled sharply. She hesitated, gripping the edge of her dresser. At last she pushed herself to her feet. Sandy touched his forehead to hers and she sagged against his shoulder. Easing a gentle hand under her arm, he led her to their bedroom door. He was about to turn the knob when Kirsten wrenched herself away.

"Wait!" she ordered, her voice shaking.

Abruptly, she toed off her pumps, pulled on a terry-cloth robe and cinched it around her black sheath. Yanking out her jet earrings, she thrust them into a pocket as she stepped into a pair of slippers.

"Kirsten?"

"I am not wearing funeral clothes while I say goodbye to Ryan," she explained. "I won't do that."

Her mouth tightened in challenge, but Sandy simply nodded, a gesture like a benediction. He shrugged off his own jacket and discarded his tie.

"Okay," he agreed quietly. "Okay. Let's go."

Before they even got to the kitchen, the aroma greeted them. Sandy sniffed, brows furrowed in surprise.

"Coffee?" he asked. "Do you suppose that Ryan--?"

"No. I made it to take out to him." Seth's voice, flat and unexpected, greeted his parents from the French doors. Trudging inside, he deposited a cup, still almost full, on the counter, and took out his keys. They flashed icy-silver in the morning light. "Summer wanted me to come over early, so I guess I should go." He shrugged helplessly, swallowing hard. "I couldn't change his mind," he admitted.

With a small, stifled moan, Kirsten drew her son close, settling his head against her shoulder, the same spot where years ago he had slept so often, warm and content and secure in her arms.

"I tried," he whispered.

"Oh, sweetie. I know."

"You guys will talk to him, right?"

"Of course we will," Sandy promised. He kneaded the back of Seth's neck until his son looked up, lifting eyes dark as pebbles in a forest stream. "But Seth, Dawn is Ryan's mother. We can't make him feel guilty for wanting to be with her."

Seth stiffened, pulling away. "That's not what he wants."

"We know. But he can't have what he wants," Kirsten said softly. "He can't bring Marissa back. Sweetie, if Ryan needs distance right now, we have to let him go." Running a hand down Seth's sleeve, she reached for a wan smile that her lips couldn't claim. "We have to support him, no matter what."

"Right. No matter what," Seth echoed dully. His fist closed around his keys, letting their jagged edges bite his flesh like tiny, hungry teeth. "I've got to go. Summer is waiting for me."

"We'll see you at the service, son." Sandy patted Seth's back, then wrapped an arm around Kirsten and drew them both into a protective embrace. For a moment they stood, a knot of shared sorrow, until, grudgingly, Seth ducked away. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

In the lonely silence left by his departure, his parents could hear the front door open and close again.

"Let's go, honey," Sandy urged. He straightened his shoulders, summoning every reserve of his strength, and tightened his grip around her waist.

Kirsten nodded mutely, but as they passed the refrigerator she raised her hand.

"For Ryan," she explained, stopping to remove an overstuffed lunch bag. "For the flight." Sandy's eyes narrowed quizzically. A series of emotions washed across his face—tenderness, amusement, fathomless regret—and Kirsten added defensively, "I know it's silly, since it's such a short trip. But I made a lunch for him the last time he went to see Dawn—his mother. I just . . . wanted something to be the same."

"It's not silly at all. And I'm sure Ryan will appreciate it, honey." Almost formally, Sandy opened the French doors. "Shall we?" he asked.

It was hard, crossing the patio.

The walk took only seconds, yet the space still resounded with a hundred echoes—the grill sputtering, chairs scraping up to the table, laughter, music, water splashing, voices spilling over each other, teasing, calling, lifting in argument or hushed with secrets—so many reminders of family.

They shimmered in the air, and then they were gone.

At the door of the poolhouse, Sandy hesitated for a moment. Bracing himself, he filled his lungs as Kirsten waited, a light breeze brushing her jasmine-scented hair. Finally, he knocked. He didn't wait for Ryan's faint "It's not locked. Come on in," before pushing the door open.

"How are you doing, kid?" he asked as he ushered Kirsten inside.

Ryan didn't seem to hear. He stood with his back to them, staring out a window, the cord of its half-raised blind wrapped around his hand. One arm stretched along the frame, supporting his slumping body, pillowing his head.

"It's amazing, this view," he murmured.

Kirsten took a single step forward, caught her breath and stumbled back, her fingers fluttering at her throat. She pressed close to Sandy. He rubbed her shoulder, his palm moving in slow, even circles, his eyes never leaving Ryan.

"It is that," he agreed. "And it's even better outside."

Without turning, Ryan nodded. "I know," he admitted. Rapt, he watched sunlight dance across the distant waves, shimmer on the still perfection of the infinity pool. "That first morning I woke up here, when I walked outside . . . It was like the whole world was spread out, shining . . ." His voice drifted from wonder like a glider's inevitable return to earth. "I thought it couldn't be real."

Abruptly, he released the cord, letting the blind fall. One end caught, the slats snagging against each other with a fretful clatter. Ryan smoothed them, easing each one back into position. When he turned, his eyes were downcast, his lips sucked in at the corners. A tremor crossed his face before he looked up.

"You're not ready," he blurted, startled. His breath quickened as he registered Kirsten's robe, the open neck of Sandy's shirt. "The . . . service . . . for Marissa--"

"Don't worry, kid. We won't be late." Sandy paused, weighing the risks, before he asked, "You sure you don't want to come? We can always get you on a later flight."

Unconsciously, Ryan locked his arms across his midriff. With nothing else to hold, he gripped his own elbows, his nails digging into his skin. "No," he answered hoarsely. "I don't belong there. Not with her family."

"Oh, sweetie, of course you do."

"No," Ryan repeated, taking a step backwards. "It's better for Julie and Kaitlin—for everybody—if I don't go."

Kirsten glanced at Sandy. He shook his head in defeat or warning. "All right," she sighed. "If you're sure . . ." Still clinging to Sandy's wrist, she approached Ryan, holding out the bag. "It's just a sandwich, some fruit and cookies. In case you get hungry," she explained with a thin, diffident smile.

"Thanks." Ryan ducked his head, almost sketching a bow. "Thank you." As he reached for the bag, his fingers grazed Kirsten's. She held on, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"You know that you can come back any time." Ryan nodded, his gaze plummeting back to the floor, and Kirsten touched his cheek. "Any time," she repeated, deliberately spacing the words, allowing each one its own weight and import. "We'll be here." Her voice wavered, dissolved. Suddenly liquid, it slid into entreaty. "We'll be waiting."

Sandy draped one arm around Ryan's neck, the other around Kirsten's waist. Just as he had done in the kitchen with Seth, he drew the three of them together, their foreheads touching in a gesture that felt like a prayer, like a promise. "I told you once, kid, just because you're leaving doesn't mean we're letting you go," he said. "That's still true. It doesn't matter that you're eighteen. It doesn't matter that you have another family. What matters that we love you and this will always be your home. You got that?"

Ryan took a shaky breath. "Got it," he whispered. "Thanks. Sandy, Kirsten . . . I know you think this is wrong."

"We don't--" Sandy claimed, but Ryan ignored the protest.

"Missing the funeral. Leaving. Everything . . . I just . . . I'm sorry."

The word lingered, expanded, seeping through the room until it seemed to become the air itself.

Kirsten stepped back. Gently, she lifted Ryan's chin, her eyes holding his, blue into blue like water into sky, her hands cupping his face so that he couldn't hide, couldn't even look away. "Don't be sorry," she said simply. "Just come back to us."

Ryan nodded. He tilted his head, his gaze as intent as if he were memorizing the moment. Instinctively, Sandy and Kirsten held still, offering him silent support, an indelible image of their strength and love.

"I will," Ryan promised.

His words broke the spell. With no more to say, all three of them moved toward the open door. When they reached it, Sandy clasped Ryan's neck, his fingers kneading a goodbye. "You have a safe trip, kid," he murmured. "Both ways."

Kirsten kissed Ryan's cheek, and then wrapped her arms around him, shifting until she could feel him nestled in that sacred spot, the same one where she had cradled Seth. Her unspoken wish sighed into his ear.

"Don't worry," Ryan whispered, as if in answer. "It's just for a while."

Kirsten's fingers threaded through his hair, ruffling strands only to smooth them again. "We're counting on that," she replied. "But I'm still going to worry. It's a mother's job."

She took a deep breath. Releasing Ryan slowly, unwillingly, she sank into Sandy's waiting embrace. Together, they trudged back across the patio, turning once to wave when they reached the French doors.

Ryan watched, lips parted, one hand suspended in an empty farewell, until they both disappeared. Then, his face blank, he stepped back inside the poolhouse. He scanned the room—the orderly shelves and desk, the bed neatly remade after Seth had left, the swept floor, vacant counter and desk, all evidence of his life carefully stowed away or removed.

Except for two final items.

Face down, concealed under his folded sweatshirt, they remained, undeniable: the Chrismukkah card where he first saw himself as part of the Cohen family, and a photograph of Marissa, laughing, snuggled against his chest. Almost, the back of that picture hurt more than the front. On one side, there she was, beautiful, alive and safe in his arms, but on the other, she had written the note. Even through layers of gray fabric, Ryan could see it, the buoyant confidence of her message, scrawled in turquoise ink and underlined twice.

"I love your smile, Ryan. I love you, more than I can say. Forever, Marissa."

_Forever. _

_Marissa._

Gingerly, almost in slow motion, Ryan lifted his sweatshirt. He put it on, shivering slightly as he tugged the zipper up. His eyes closed as he inhaled and exhaled, three deep, measured breaths. Then he opened his eyes and turned the photographs over. Moving with the tortured caution of a patient checking his own burns, he touched each one, pressing his thumb against the glossy surface, watching as the whorls of his fingerprint gradually, inevitably, disappeared.

The images blurred under his stinging gaze.

Ryan's mouth compressed and he swallowed hard.

With sudden decision, he picked up both pictures, slid them inside an otherwise empty drawer and pushed it shut. Grabbing his duffel bag, he positioned it between his feet, next to the lunch Kirsten had prepared. He patted his back pocket, felt the folded note safely tucked inside, and nodded tersely.

Satisfied that everything was in place, Ryan took a deep breath. Then he sat down to wait until everyone had gone.

Sandy opened the door of the Cohen house silently, stepping aside to allow his wife and son to enter first. He loosened his tie as he watched them come in, Kirsten plucking the neckline of her wilted dress, aimlessly lifting strands of her damp hair, Seth striding toward the stairs, shoulders rigid beneath the grim black of his jacket.

"Sweetie--" Kirsten called.

Seth paused, halfway up to the landing. He glanced back, his eyes opaque, shook his head and continued climbing. His steps were swift and purposeful, but they faltered just as he reached the top. As though something vital inside him had fractured, he slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was crouched on the floor, his face buried in his hands.

Instinctively, Kirsten started up after him. Sandy caught her wrist, stopping her.

"Give him a few minutes," he urged, low. "He spent all day being strong for Summer. I don't think he wants to face anyone now."

He didn't add, "except Ryan," but Kirsten heard the words anyway.

"I just want to do something, Sandy," she murmured. At a loss, she twisted her rings, staring at Seth's huddled form. She started to suggest "I'll make some hot chocolate," but the words congealed on her tongue. It wasn't magic, that drink, didn't cure anything, couldn't restore her son's shattered faith in the future, or help them reclaim their lost family.

It hadn't eased Ryan's pain even a little bit.

Still, Kirsten found herself drifting toward the kitchen. Tea, she thought, or maybe soup. Although what did it matter? No one would eat or drink anything.

The phone rang, rending through her despair.

"I'll get it," she offered.

"Kirsten, you're exhausted. Just let the machine pick up."

"No, I want to," she insisted. "It might be Ryan."

Sandy's brow creased, but he didn't argue. "Okay," he agreed, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead. "I'm going to get changed."

Kirsten watched him trudge wearily down the hall, then snatched up the phone. "Hello?" she prompted. "Ryan?"

There was an garbled sound, like someone snorting or sobbing, before the line hummed with a murky silence.

"Hello?" she repeated. "Cohen residence. Is someone there?"

"Krishen?"

"Excuse me?"

"Krishen? You gotta tell him I'm sorry, 'kay?"

Kirsten frowned into the receiver. "I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number--"

"'Kay? Please? Can you do that for me? Huh?"

The voice was sloppy and sodden, importunate. Halfway to hanging up, Kirsten felt herself freeze. "Dawn?" she asked, dread running icy fingers along her spine. "Dawn, is that you?" Closing her eyes, she listened intently, filtering the slushy words until they made sense.

"One gift—I give Ry one gift since, since he was a baby practically, and he almost dies in it. And his girlfriend, that sweet Marissa—God, she was so pretty. It's like a, a really, really sick joke, you know? Only not funny . . . You shoulda seen his face, Kirsten. When Ry saw the car—he was like a little kid, all, all lit up inside, so damn excited . . . I got to be his mom for one lousy minute and I nearly kill him . . ."

"Oh my God," Kirsten breathed. She gripped the phone, enunciating precisely. "Dawn, listen to me. Are you alone? You need to call your sponsor. All right? Talk to your sponsor, get him to come over right now, and then you can call me back."

Anger flared across the line. "Fuck that. I'm callin' you now! What, you don' wanna talk to me? Well, fine. But I, I don' need any, any sponsor shit. Okay? Fuckin' joke, that AA." Kirsten winced, but she didn't have time to respond before Dawn's fury burned itself out. "You love Ry, right?" she whimpered plaintively. "I mean, even though he's really my kid, maybe you at leas' love him a lil', lil' bit?"

"Dawn, of course we love Ryan--"

"'Cause I know he's eight, eighteen now, so you don't gotta do nothin' for him anymore but . . . Ry, he needs somebody, y'know? Krishen if you an' San'y throw him out--"

"Dawn, we would never do that. I promise you. Ryan chose to leave. We want him here with us, but we couldn't force him to stay. Listen to me. Dawn?" Desperately, Kirsten summoned her clipped, business voice. In the distance, she heard Seth yelling for her and Sandy, but she ignored his voice and the sound of his footsteps racing down the stairs. "This is important," she insisted. "You have to sober up, do you hear? You have to do that for Ryan. He's on his way to you now. He needs you--"

There was a muddy sound, mirthless laughter and disbelief sloshing together. "What the hell? Whaddya mean, Ry's comin' to me? No he's, no he's not." Dawn's voice gurgled around a sob. "My baby hasn't come to me since he was jus' . . . lil'. Not since he was a lil, lil boy. 'Cept to, to invite me to his graduation. Why the fuck did he do that anyway?"

"Ryan is coming, Dawn. He's on a plane now. And you can't let him find you like this. You can't do that to him."

"Goddamn it!" Dawn snapped. "Stop! Jus' . . . stop! Don' you lie to me! Jus' 'cause you don' want Ry around anymore. Shoulda never called—Lyin' bitch!"

Kirsten flinched at the crash of Dawn's phone slamming down, the sudden, angry buzz of the dial tone.

"Sandy!" she cried, whirling around and rushing into her bedroom. Dazed with panic, she scarcely noticed Seth standing by the dresser. "Sandy, we have to stop Ryan—contact his plane, or have somebody meet him at the airport. I don't know, something! But we can't let him go to Dawn. She's drunk—worse than drunk, I think. He can't be with her, not when she's like that--"

"He won't be," Sandy interjected flatly.

"What?" Kirsten gasped. For the first time, she registered Seth's rigid form, the defeated slump of Sandy's shoulders, the sheet of paper he gripped in a white-knuckled hand. "What do you mean? Where's Ryan? Didn't he leave after all?"

Sandy crumpled the edge of the note and slowly, painfully lifted his head. When he spoke, his voice matched his eyes: gray and hollow. "He left," he replied. "He just didn't go to Dawn."

TBC


End file.
